


Devil May Cry Me a River

by ViperAssassin



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Asexual Character, Assassins, BAMF Mike, Cussing, Gay Character, Murder, Phantom Thief AU, Rosco is a hopeless cinnamon bun, Stakeouts, Thief AU, animatronics are confused, just a bit uh huh, obviously deviates from canon, probably blood and guts, probably gonna be slash, warning for Michael's potty mouth, yknow if I ever get around to writing more lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 08:15:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9539372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViperAssassin/pseuds/ViperAssassin
Summary: The thief!AU idea I've had in my head for a few years, finally down in a document to be read.Mike Schmidt gets hired into the security detail of Freddy Fazbears pizzeria, because the last night guard had to quit suddenly. He's got some ulterior motives, though, that don't actually have anything to do with the animatronics, even after he finds out the pizzeria's secret horrors.What those of Fazbear don't know, however, is that things aren't always what they seem. Sure, they thought they knew, but they really don't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously just my beta test. Haven't even gone through to check for spelling errors yet. I'm just putting this out here to see if it generates any results. Drop me line and tell me what you think. I'll be around.  
> The beginning is a little dry, obviously. This whole thing is basically me trying to outline my idea and then I got carried away aha. Do with that what you will.

Things aren’t always what they seem.

It was a saying favored by many people, from different paths of life and eras of history. They considered it witty, perhaps, or thoughtfully philosophical. Some likened it to their own lives more than others. Thinking it belonged to them, rather than these strangers who had no idea what they’d been through, when they themselves could never understand things from the other point of view.

Those who have worked security detail at Freddie Fazbear’s pizzeria would tell you they understood that saying more than anyone you could reference to them.

Unfortunately, most of them weren’t alive to contest any claims otherwise.

If you were to ask the animatronics, however, you’d get an all too entirely horrific tale, before being stuffed in a suit. Everyone in the know knew that. Those not, well… death approaches, of course.

Everyone knew that, too.

Everyone except the security detail.

Speaking of, the new guy was coming in this morning for his orientation.

Maybe he’ll last longer than the last one.

~X~

Michael Schmidt was an ordinary guy, your average Joe in the regular life of work, eat, and sleep that left most going on in this modern age as robotic organisms rather than people. A handsome young face that could belong to a college student, or one just graduated. Nondescript clothes in muted colors. Nothing in his records to make a comment on.

No recommendations, either, but Management was getting desperate, weren’t they?

The thing was, Schmidt was the type of person that could disappear, if you didn’t know to look for him. He could step back and blend right into the background, and if you even remembered you’d only be left offhandedly wondering where he’d gotten off to.

Nothing suspicious. Nothing to be suspicious of. That, in and of itself, would be suspicious, if you were the type to be paranoid.

But, Management was desperate, and you weren’t the type to be paranoid.

So, even though Schmidt wasn’t the kind of person you’d usually see applying for security detail, you had stamped the form with an approval and moved on without a second thought. The schedule to keep such a establishment as Fazbear’s up and running was hectic at best, terrifyingly stressful at worst.

At least you didn’t work on the Night Shift.

~X~

Freddie Fazbear’s pizzeria was a run down building, the single story architecture left over from an age long past. It stood on the corner of a busy street, next to an empty lot being prepared for construction and directly across from the middleman warehouse of the International Association of Banks. The rest of the street was a rather unstable modge-podge of the marks of corporate industrialization; skyscrapers made into office buildings and warehouses, with a few storefront outlets thrown in for commercial revenue.

It had used to be a family-friendly center of commerce, full of the smalltown American dream-type businesses. Where telemarketers now worked from their gray cubicles, had once stood a locally owned ice cream parlor, catering to the needs of the suburban dwellers than flocked in from two streets over- where there now existed, not houses, but a mall.

Some would say it was tragic, what the progressive age had torn down in the name of business.

The man called Michael Schmidt could care less, honestly.

Business was business. That was something he’d always been able to understand.

He pushed the door before him open with the toe of his boot, shouldering his way through the rather jarring tingle of the bell overhead. He made his way across checkered linoleum floors, squeaky clean despite the wear and tear they’d suffered over the years. He studiously ignored the piercing stare the petite teenager behind the cash register up at the front desk was aiming at the back of his head, and made his way to the narrow hallway behind the “employees only” door toward the back.

Barging uncaringly into the security room, Michael Schmidt tossed the duffel bag he’d been hauling over his shoulder onto the bare table crowded into the corner. It landed with a heavy thump. Michael ignored it, stretching his arms over his head and only smiling when his spine gave the telltale pops that one would normally only hear from bubble wrap.

Giving the room a once over, and grimacing slightly at the out-of-date equipment supplying the camera feeds to the three monitors at the desk, he gave a long sigh.

“It’ll have to do,” he remarked, and said nothing more before getting to work.

 

**Night 1**

 

“There’s a certain finesse needed, you know.” Michael said into the mouthpiece phone. “C'mon, you act like you’ve never done this before.”

The voice on the other end replied, a few octaves lower and a bit more irate, but no words to be made sense of. Michael raised an eyebrow at the curious employee still vacuuming his way across the carpeted play area. The teen averted his eyes and focused on pushing the device across the floor.

The new security guard made his way to the front of the shop, giving a friendly smile to the final family that was departing. The littlest of the three kids gave him an excited wave goodbye as her mother ushered her out the door. Michael huffed a laugh as he waved her back, smiling as she hid her face embarrassingly in the amused woman’s coat even as the elder of the boys was whining about not getting the ticket prize he’d wanted most.

“It’s closing time,” the father was telling the brat. “We’ve been here  _ hours _ , Lionel. Maybe next time.”

“But I want it  _ this _ time!”

“You’re through?” Michael turned his attention back to his own conversation, nodding at the mother and moving to peer out the front windows. It was dark out, thanks to the shorter days that came hand in hand with the winter months. The street lamps had turned on two hours ago, and the construction crew next door had already gone home for the day. “Great. Careful with it now, this is the most important part.”

Such loud noises only a parking lot away drove business away, of course. If Michael was actually in any way invested in this job, he’d be annoyed at the fact. Less customers meant less profit, for both the pizzeria and it’s employees-  _ i.e. _ him.

The fact of the matter was, however, that such a lull in business was what Michael had been looking for. Perfect.

“Twist it to the left. Hear the click? Good, now-” Michael caught the eye of the cashier’s she made her way to the front door, backpack slung over one shoulder. He brightened his voice a bit. “See? Now it’s fixed. Right?”

A vague noise of affirmation sounded from the other line.

“Right,” Michael nodded. “You can take it from here, right? I mean, it’s yours, so- yeah, thought so. Call me if it keeps being annoying, and... Well, I’ll see what I can do, i guess. Catch you later.”

He snapped the phone shut and tossed it cheerfully in the trashcan by the door.

**MIDNIGHT**

The very minute Michael’s watch struck 12:00, it was down to business. The lights shut off, automatically. A curious installation for such a run down pizzeria, but no matter.

He was drowned out by the darkness for a moment, before shrugging carefully and adjusting his glasses. One touch to the button on the frames, and the night vision turned on easy-as-you-please; he’d been intending to spend this night in darkness in the first place. A touch of coincidence, that his new place of work agreed.

Tugging the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, Michael cast one last critical look over the camera feed on his monitors before toeing open the office door and vanishing into the halls as quiet a a mouse. No one else was here, of course, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

The man made his way into the main dining area of the pizzeria and took a quick survey of the scene. The front of the building had those huge windows, joining with the front doors that were made of glass. Something you saw mainly in storefronts, useful for window shopping. Also, one of the reasons Michael had applied for this job.

The colorful tubes and rope course for the indoor jungle-gym sat off to the northwest corner of the room, directly across from the arcade floor. He’d walked past it on his way to scout the break room earlier that evening before he clocked in. On the north side, opposite of the security room, the stage holding the infamous animatronics was dutifully set up, ready for the next performance. MI heal spared it a cursory glance, absently wondering where the purple rabbit guitarist had gone (perhaps the repair room? This place was a run-down dump, but it’s facilities were a bit state-of-the-art for a pizzeria originally built in the 1950s), before unceremoniously plopping down before the leftmost of the front windows and dropping his duffel beside him.

It barely had time to hit the floor before it was being opened, zipper loud in the dark and empty restaurant. Michael pulled out his laptop, his camera, and a set of high-end binoculars before sitting back against the wall.

He flipped open the laptop with a grace that came only with familiarity, and tapped the power button. Slipping the nightvision shades down the bridge of his nose, he peered over them to enter in his password, before taking them off entirely and adjusting the lenses to the front of his binoculars. He reached up and tapped his earpiece.

“In,” he vocalized, and the channel was suddenly alive with activity.

Not voices, of course. No, what he was hearing amongst the static were numbers, a coded algorithm that was uniquely his own. He focused on the noise for a moment before entering the information it was feeding him onto a program on his laptop.. He brought up another program, miniaturized the tab, and opened yet another. He then got to work.

Fifteen minutes in, there came a loud clang from his left, behind him and in the general area of the arcade. Michael huffed under his breath, sending a piercing glare in the direction of “the Cove” or whatever they called it, before continuing on in typing up yet another algorithm to work with the other. A new one was needed to support an additional program. He wouldn’t be able to access the outside surveillance otherwise.

Another clang sounded, ten minutes later, this time from the kitchens.

“Shut it,” Michael muttered with a roll of his eyes, before proceeding to ignore it entirely.

He was able to go the rest of the hour in peace.

**1:00 AM**

One in the morning was what many would consider the apex of desolation. The vertex of those nights spent in depression, the moment you saw the blinking numbers, you knew you wouldn’t be getting much, if any, sleep that night. Others, more experienced in such matters, would tell you, no, that’d be 5 AM, but let’s digress.

Michael lowered the screen of his laptop so that it was angled about an inch from it’s own keyboard, and turned toward the window. It was old, but clean- having enjoyed the same dutiful attentions that the rest of the place did. Michael wondered offhandedly why such a dump liked to keep itself more orderly and clean than a damn hospital, but shook the thought away. It landed in his favor, didn’t it? Cleaner window meant clearer view.

He peered through the binoculars, adjusting the scope a bit until a sharper picture came into focus. He followed the outline of the warehouse across the street, moving the scene from point to point, until he came around in a circle and found himself staring at the front entrance. He lowered the binoculars, absently lifting up the screen of the laptop and typing out a few notes. He made sure to make special note of the locations of any surveillance cameras he’d managed to pinpoint, as well as their make and model, of which he’d managed to figure out only one.

Usually, places like this liked to keep their equipment up to date and all a part of a single set. But, then again, it was the IAB, and they prided themselves on being unpredictable. He wouldn’t put it past them to have a collage of security feeds from different companies.

Lowering the screen, he gave the warehouse another once over, jotting down a few more notes, before setting the scope aside and turning his full attention back to his laptop.

Something fuzzy and heavy landed on his shoulder. He froze, glancing back at it. A giant paw? He followed the appendage with his eyes, until he was met with the huge, looming face of one of the animatronics. Not the bear, then. The rabbit one.

Wasn’t in the repair room, apparently. No, it was wandering around, on it’s own, like some sort of creepy, self sufficient robot.

Fascinating, honestly, but ultimately not why Michael was here. Therefore, not his problem. He raised a brow at it.

“I’m busy.”

The robo- rabbit didn’t move, or make a sound. It just stared at Michael with it’s wide, unblinking metal eyes.

Michael’s own eyes narrowed a bit. “Listen, pal, I’m trying get stuff done. See?” He motioned one hand toward is equipment and duffel bag. “I'd appreciate it if you went and found someone else to bother.”

The rabbit slowly, achingly slowly, took its paw away from Michael’s shoulder. It seemed to take a step back, and then stopped, moving no further. Still staring at Michael.

The man stared back, eyebrow still raised and demanding. After a moment, he sighed and turned back to his computer. “Whatever.”

Fifteen minutes later, and Michael had met a block in his work. He stared blankly at the equally blank text box on his screen, fingers twitching and hovered over the keyboard yet not touching the keys. He let out a quietly aggravated sound and turned to face the rabbit again.

It was still staring. Silently assessing him.

“Do you  _ need _ something?” He asked, unimpressed. He shut the laptop with a loud snap. “Again, tryin’a work here. Go find one of your buddies to play with or something. Off you go, now. There, there.”

Slowly, so slowly it made Michael wanna yell profanities, the rabbit pivoted on it’s foot and took a step, then another, until it was making it’s way through the maze of tables and back to the stage. It climbed up the stairs and lifted it’s guitar to it’s chest in a reverent way that frankly creeped Michael out, then stood still next to it’s buddies. All three of them stared across the room at him with their giant, beady eyes that gleamed ominously in the dark.

He shook his head, and turned back to flip open laptop once more. “Okay.”

**2:00 AM**

The second hour of the night crept idly by, as Michael tapped away on his laptop, occasionally pausing to survey the warehouse he had in his sights. By now, he had a working algorithm for three programs up and running a smoothly as melted butter, and had switched focus to a more pressing matter.

Pushing his computer off his lap, he allowed the device to slide onto the tiled floors with barely a clatter. Instead, he rose to his knees and reached for the rolls of paper sitting innocently at the bottom of his duffel bag, and set to the task of spreading them out neatly across the floor, using four napkin dispensers off the nearby tables as weights so it didn’t curl in on itself. Once he was sure the paper was lying flat, he pulled a phone out of his pocket and set to work once more.

It took over half an hour this time, to be disturbed. He’d nearly finished mapping out the warehouse, adding in the security cameras and guard rotations he’d taken notes on earlier, and was just about to move on to the next page of blueprints when something began moving tables up near the front of the dining room.

Michael paused in shuffling the papers, closed his eyes, and let out a long, calming breath. Maybe they weren’t doing it on purpose. It’d be rude to snap at them when they’d just started. Especially after he, a stranger, and just barged into their territory and started spying on the neighbors. Maybe they didn’t mean anything by it-

A table fall on it’s side, metal edges clanging loudly as it hit the floor and rolled a few paces. The chairs that had been neatly set upside down on it’s surface came crashing down.

Michael cursed vividly under his breath, jumping up from his stakeout and marching up to the front of the room. They were back to standing up on the stage, all three of them looking as innocent as could be, but Michael knew. One of the tables in the front had been tipped over, and who else was here to do it, hmm?

He grumbled beneath his breath, hauling the table up back to it’s original place and worked on getting the chairs set up again. “Ok, ok, it’s night, and it’s  _ boring _ . Totally understandable. Still, no reason to make a mess of the place, is it? Fuck.”

He scoured the floor for the napkin dispenser, grateful that the bus staff stored all the salt and pepper shakers and other such condiments in the kitchens during closing hours. Otherwise there’d have been an even bigger mess, and Michael had no interest in picking the lock on the janitor’s closet to get at the vacuum and cleaning supplies.

Finally, he spun around and placed his hands on his hips, feeling ridiculously like and scolding mother in such a pose. “Find a board game or something to play! I can’t  _ believe _ you three; you stand there all day watching the employees work their asses off trying to keep this trashcan cleaner than a goddamn pharmacy, and then you go and pull something like this? Don’t give me those looks, I know that you know perfectly well what you’re doing!”

They didn’t move. They just stared at him with those huge, guileless eyes. As if they were trying to ask,  _ Who, us _ ?

Michael turned away and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “No, you know what?I’m not dealing with this. Find someplace you can fuck off without causing a scene, alright?”

He marched back over to the window and sat down hard, indian style. So what if he had a bruised tailbone from that? He was so irritated he couldn’t even feel it. Anger was such a blessing.

He stacked the papers so that the next blueprint was on top and got back to business.

**3:00 AM**

Three hours into his shift found Michael back in the security room, surveying the feeds and comparing them with his notes on the cameras that worked across the streets. Surprise, surprise, one such camera matched those that Fazbear’s pizzeria employed. Funny, since these ones were practically antiques.

Sure, they worked fine, but when tasked to survey the comings and going of one of the IAB’s storage facilities, you normally want top-notch security. Lots of merchandise went through that warehouse that fellows of the underworld would kill their own sisters just to lay their hands on.

Luckily, if we’re talking scenario, Michael didn’t  _ have _ a sister.

With this reasoning, however, it was safe to say that such an old, out of date surveillance camera was set at that corner on purpose, by the IAB-hired security detail. Which, of course, begged the question;  _ why the fuck _ ?

_ Why _   was what Michael had scooted back to Fazbear’s own security feeds to find out. Sure, it worked as a wonderful ploy. Have a weak spot here, one you knew was a weak spot. That way you could control it. Any idiot worth his dough knew weak spots would be exploited if left unattended. It took a smarter idiot to realize that, sometimes, weak spots were left unattended on purpose.

Unattended didn’t mean it wasn’t still being watched.

Michael paused in taking notes on the capabilities of the Fazbear’s security cameras, and peered closely at one feed in particular. This one showed the playspace just beyond the arcade and jungle-gym, where the final animatronic was suppose to be located, away from the others. The fox, right? Well, it wasn’t there.

Michael’s eyes began to narrow, but he caught himself and gave his head a rough shake.  _ No. Don’t care. _

So long as the fox didn’t pull the same stunt it’s buddies had an made a mess, it could screw around as much as it pleased. Not like it was any of Michael’s business.

Michael returned to his notes, and then threw his pen on the table with a growl when he realized the damn pirate was leaning against the desk, broken jaw hinged to the left in a mockery of a grin.

“Oh my god,” Michael said tonelessly. “Don’t you things have anything better to do?  _ Seriously _ .”

The animatronic (whose name was the only one Michael actually remembered from orientation day, simply because it was painfully unimaginative) gave a hyena-like cackle, digital voice-box on the fritz if the static pauses in between were any indication. It waved it hook in the air and went “Aye, matey!”

Michael blinked, slowly, hoping that this was only a dream, and he’d wake up. No such luck, Foxy (cue mental laughter. The voice in Michael’s head went  _ oh my god _ ?  _ why _ ?) was still there when he opened his eyes.

“ _ Listen  _ to me," he said as it took a step toward him. “Imma tell you exactly what I told your band pals. I don’t give a fuck, alright? I’ll do my work, you play your games or whatever it is you do with your free time. You don’t disrespect the cleaning staff’s hard work and make any messes I have to clean up, and everyone’s happy. See?”

Slowly (this must be a thing with all the robo-brats. Maybe their hinges were rusty or whatever. Again, not Michael’s problem, but ultimately annoying nonetheless.) the red furred menace nodded it’s giant animal head up and down. Up and down.

Michael rolled his eyes. “Cool, appreciate it. Now, fuck off, yeah? I told you, I'm busy.”

Foxy left. But not before knocking Michael’s laptop off the desk and onto the floor on it’s way.

“Goddammit,” Michael hissed, but bent up to pick it up anyway, checking to see that it wasn’t damaged. Thankfully, it wasn’t. Anyway, what could he do? It’s not like he hadn’t been rude either. Just desserts, and all that.

Back to work, now.

**4:00 AM**

By the fourth hour, Michael’s eyes were burning, and he was regretting the full day of working hours he’d planned for himself already. He’d already stayed up the night before, and hadn’t had much in the way of sleep between then and clocking in to his Fazbear’s shift.

Wasn’t to say that Michael wasn’t used to days on end of little sleep. He’d worked with less before, after all. So long as he brought an energy drink or a coffee or two to keep the drowsiness away.

It was to say, though, that he’d forgotten to bring such a staple necessity on this job when he’d come into work that evening.

He could have sworn he’d packed it away with everything else before leaving his apartment that afternoon, but apparently he’d been mistaken. He’d dug through both his duffel bag and his laptop case, and still no Redbull.

An tragic oversight. No matter. He’d have to survive without it, tonight.

A buzzing noise caught his attention as he was making his way back his vigilant by the window, and he sighed in aggravation. He changed his course, heading to the front entrance again, east from the security office. Michael knelt down and dug a hand around in the empty trash can, waiting until it hit an object sitting at the bottom. He pulled out the burner phone he’d tossed earlier, thankfully after the cleaning staff had changed out all the trashes, and flipped the device open.

Pressing the green call button to answer, he held it up to his ear. “What.”

“ _ Listen, man, you know I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important. _ ”

Michael gritted his teeth, still knelt beside the trashcan. “It  _ better _ be important, Rosco. I ditch the duds after the first call, y’know that. Always do. You’re lucky I was still in the vicinity, otherwise this burner’d be outta my range already. Now, the fuck you want?”

“ _ Hey, you said I could call you if I still needed your expertise, didn’tch _ _a_?”

“Sure, but- “

“ _ Well, I need your expertise _ !”

“-not on this number, you ass!” Michael hissed. “What are you, a moron? Thought you were smarter.”

“ _ Stretched for time. You gon’ help me, or not _ ?”

“Fuck that. Fine. What is it?”

Rosco detailed the bind he’d dug himself into this time, and Michael rolled his eyes as he walked the idiot through it. Honestly, if Michael wasn’t such a nice, giving friend, Rosco would be dead by now. No doubt about it. The guy just wasn’t cut out for this work. He’d tried to tell him, but bolts-for-brains wouldn’t have it. Something about proving himself, or other such nonsense. Whatever.

“-now turn it three times, to the left, until you hear the- yeah? It click?” Michael pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out an annoyed sound. “Good. Now take whatever shit you went there for and get the hell out. I hear the Merlot’s gotten tighter rounds in this past week.”

“ _ Wh- the hell you know where I was _ ?”

“Rosco.  _ Bae _ ,” Michael smirked indulgently, irritation lessening in the face of once again showing how awesome he himself was to another human being. Always brought the spirits up. “I have my ways. Y’know that. Now fuck off, hear me? I’m  _ scouting _ .”

“. _.. Shit, sorry _ .”

“I know, I know. Remember, I won’t answer thing thing again.” Michael hung up and, for good measure, broke the burner in half and tossed the pieces back into the trashcan.

See if Rosco tried calling that number again. He chuckled, and turned to head back to the window.

Or tried to. Big teddybear was in the way, this time.

Michael smiled patiently up at it’s creepy eyeballs. “What.”

The bear pointed toward the security office. Michael followed it’s fuzzy, sausage finger and saw, through the large window allowing a view into the office, Foxy inside, holding up the corded phone that usually sat on the desk.

Michael turned back to the bear. “I’ve got my own, thanks.”

The thing actually had the audacity to facepalm, before pointing once again to it’s red-furred compatriot. Foxy lifted the phone into the air once, and jiggled it around a bit, as if trying to make it seem more appealing.

Michael sighed. “I told you, I’m  _ busy _ . I can’t play with you, or whatever it is giant, robotic, bipedal animals like to do for fun. Now buzz off.”

He turned to go back to his business, like any self-respecting adult with a job to do would, but was once again kept from it when the animatronic surged forward, wrapped it’s fuzzy sausage arms around him, and bodily lifted him into the air. It then proceeded to carry him to the security office.

Michael gave a bit of a struggle, but the bear was surprisingly strong, and it had his arms pinned to his side, so he figured what the hell. He caught Foxy’s eyes on the way in, though, and the damned thing was absolutely laughing at him. Static cackle noise and everything.

_ Well _ . “Fuck you too,” he told it.

“Aye, matey,” it said cheerfully.

Mr. Bear squeezed him warningly. Michael rolled his eyes.

It set him down rather carefully on the chair in the office, pointed at the phone that now sat on the desk with a purpose, and then turned to follow Foxy out, closing the door behind it.

Michael peeked through the office windows to where his equipment sat abandoned on the floor, and made a longing noise in the back of his throat.

The duck one appeared in his sights, winged arms crossed over its chest as it stared through the window at him. It glanced at the phone pointedly before pinning him with a look. It’s eyes actually narrowed.

Michael hadn’t known they had eyelids. The animatronics were creepily detailed. He wasn’t sure who had considered this place safe for children, even back when it was knew, but whoever it was hadn’t been right in the head.

He leaned back in the chair, let out a loud, colorful curse word, smiled at the apparently offended duck outside his window, and turned back to the phone.

It sat on his desk, waiting patiently. It, so far, had not wronged him.

“Fuck it,” he sighed. “ _ Fine _ , ok.”

**5:00 AM**

“. _..and death. Uh, the only parts of you that would likely see the light of day again would be your eyeballs and teeth when they pop out the front of the mask, heh. ...Y-Yeah, they don't tell you these things when you sign up. But hey, first day should be a breeze. I'll chat with you tomorrow. Uh, check those cameras, and remember to close the doors only if absolutely necessary. Gotta conserve power. Alright, good night _ .”

Michael nodded along as Phone Guy spoke. Nervous guy, sounded pretty twitchy. Good reason, though, from what he’d heard so far. Michael appreciated how the fellow night guard was attempting to put the listener more at ease. Not many out there had such consideration, it was refreshing to come across it.

As the recorded message came to an end, Michael sat back in his chair and stared at the phone. It sat so innocently on his desk, as if it hadn’t done anything wrong. His elbows resting on the arms of the chair, fingers steepled together before his face. The tips of his index and middle fingers were pressed to his mouth, which was pursed thoughtfully.

Silence permeated the office. Michael stared at the phone. The phone, if it had eyes, probably would have stared back, nonplussed.

Slowly, Michael inched his steepled hands forward before him, palms together, as if thrusting them out to someone else, in order to make an important point in a debate he may have been having with said person. Perhaps said person was the phone.

Michael then stated, very calmly, “What the fuck.”

Yeah, it was the phone.

He turned, peering out of the office window. The four animatronics stood, not on the stage, but among the tables of the dining area. Like a pack of wolves in a forest, waiting for its next prey. As one, they all slowly turned toward him, eyeballs gleaming in the low lights of the pizzeria.

Michael considered them for a moment. They grinned unendingly at him.  _ Creepy motherfuckers _ .

Then, he turned his gaze back toward where his equipment sat, unattended, by the window. Lifting a hand out toward it all, Michael once again made a longing whine.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught both the bear and the duck facepalming. Score.

**6:00 AM**

Ah yes, six in the morning. Michael swung the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder and whistled cheerfully as he exited the security office.

He’d lost an hour he’d meant to spend on more important things, such as scouting out the warehouse across the street and scheming his evil schemes, but it wasn’t without reason. Now that he had a better understanding of how the security measures of the office that Phone Guy had talked about worked, the entire thing had sparked a few ideas in his head. Michael couldn’t wait to test them out. Later though, for now…

A quick glance out the front windows he’d stood vigil by for hours that night shows him that the bossman was just getting out of his car to open the pizzeria for the cute little morning crowd. Probably wouldn’t get any actual customers until that afternoon, though. While it was summer, kiddos tended to like to sleep in, didn’t they?

He moseyed his way on through the arcade, gave the jungle-gym a fond once over, and found himself standing in front of the stage area. Three animatronics stared at him with beady eyeballs, felt eyelids lowered half-mast ever since the clock struck six.

If he was being honest with himself, this leer was even freakier than the wide-eyed, unblinking gazes he’d suffered throughout the night.

“Hey, hey, listen,” he jutted his chin out in a nod. “So you’re psycho killer robots out for, what, your revenge plot or whatever? I get it, good for you and all that.  _ Leave me out of it _ , though. I’ve got shit to do and I don’t need you distracting me from it, alright? Cool, cool. Good talk.”

He turned on his heel, but not before giving them all a cheeking salute. “See y’all tonight, then.”

Bossman unlocked the door, but didn’t come in. He stared at Michael in unbridled fascination and awe as the night guard ambled his way past, a cheerful hum going on.

“Mornin,” he waved carelessly, and made his way to his rental car. “I’m off.”

He took quite a few steps before the guy managed to get his voice back.

“You’ll, uh… you’ll be back, tonight?”

Michael glanced over his shoulder at the man, eyebrow raised incredulously. “Well, I mean. It’s my  _ job _ , right?”

“That… means you’ll come back?”

“Obviously.”  _ Dumbass _ .

Michael continued on his way.

What the hell was Bossman thinking, anyway? As far as Michael was concerned,  _ business was business. _

 


End file.
